As a guy, my orgasms are cheap. A dime a dozen. Two for the price of one. Try a free sample. We’ll even pay shipping and handling. In the grand scheme of things, getting me an orgasm is no science or artistry. Admittedly, I’ve had some when my fingers tingled and others where my whole body went weak; not all orgasms are equal (or even on the same scale).

But the point is that my orgasm is no grand affair. Easily nine out of ten sexual encounters with my wife end with me getting an orgasm.

And that’s another problem. Once I go, I’m spent. Tired. Flaccid. Typically, I’ve got nothing more to give. Sure, we might find other activities to keep things moving, but my efforts are more subdued. I’m interested of course, but my energies are more dutiful than natural (not that there’s anything wrong with that; I enjoy pleasing my wife). In general, my orgasm marks the downhill slope at best, and a sudden brick wall at worst, and they’re an almost sure thing.

Not so with my wife. When her toes curl, she can keep going. And often with renewed vigor. And there’s no certainty here. Her orgasms require skill, technique, science, art, and patience, all blurred together in a unique rhythmic medley that will never be played again. There’s no formula: x + y = O-face. Each one must be earned individually.

Like a difficult video game achievement, I pursue each with an addicted, relentless desire. If she doesn’t orgasm, I feel like I missed out (even in quickies, which aren’t intended to give either or both of us orgasms, though to a lesser degree).

And if she doesn’t orgasm at least twice, I feel like I left things undone. Like when you leave for a trip with a dirty house. Until you get in there and do what you should have done in the first place, you’ll be distracted.

If she doesn’t lose count of orgasms, that’s okay. This time. But even the occasional “countless” night needs to happen every once in a while.

God made her capable of multiple orgasms, so I feel she should have them frequently. I’m not doing my duty as her husband if on occasion she doesn’t pulse and throb for ten minutes afterward. Then she’s spent, tired, flaccid. Nothing more to give.

And I feel all the more like a man as a result.

When she lies on the bed with that look in her eye, it’s a challenge. “Can you unlock my mysteries? Can you make me moan? Shudder? Then, what’s more, can you do it all again? And again, and again, and again…?”

Originally posted 2015-09-21 08:00:46.